Dump File
by nuclear death frog
Summary: This is a dump-file for story ideas I will likely never get to.
1. Chapter 1

"Incomplete Picture": A prologue

He hated the sky.

He hated the sky because the sky tormented him, always unleashing the weather that he didn't want.

He hated the sky, because it was oppressive and uncaring.

He hated the sky, but indoors was no better. Indoors he was unwelcome and unwanted. He knew this and had known it for years.

His parents didn't love him. There was no overt hostility, but the disgust was so thick that it passed for much the same thing.

His younger sister didn't love him either. She was contemptuous and that was much, much worse than what he knew his parents felt.

He had grown up knowing these facts. The time was fast approaching when he could leave, and he looked forward to it with absolute yearning. Even the house didn't want him around.

Squibs were unwelcome and unwanted. In Darker families they simply disappeared; his was not that Dark, but they were still Pure Blood and to be Pure Blood meant your family didn't have such _flaws_ as his _kind_. If such errant failures appeared, they disappeared.

His parents had not made him disappear, but they had never acknowledged him and the time was fast approaching when he would vanish. Exile into the Muggle world; absolutely permanent unless one day he spawned a proven Magical child. Even then, he would not be welcome back, but the child might. The odds were slim, but not zero. Though they were definitely slim since he had a sister and since his sister was Magical, her children (when she was old enough to have them) would be Magical born from Magical, not Magical sired by Squib.

He knew the date of his imminent exile: March 27, 1977. His seventeenth birthday.

It was less than a year from now. Less than a year until he was of age and vanished.

Until then, he would spend his free hours on the expansive lawn behind the manor, staring up at the sky and hating it with everything in his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.**

Terrifying pain crashed over him, like the entire mass of the wide ocean hitting the beach all at once with crushing force. His every nerve was an inferno, his skull was splitting open, there was a keening wail he heard from miles in the distance...

His sight blinked out in a moment and he crumpled on the floor, unconscious.

He woke... was he awake?... to white clouds and indistinct, blinking images. He was being shaken, and someone was talking to him in a voice he could not recall having ever heard... it was a man's voice.

"Harry."

The voice was clear, but Harry could see nothing of the man speaking to him.

"It's not time yet, Harry."

Where was he? So far as Harry knew, he was in the Chamber of Secrets. He was trying to save Ginny Weasley... he had killed a basilisk set upon him by Tom Riddle, who one day would... who had in the past, grown up to call himself Lord Voldemort. Tom Riddle had come out of a diary... he, Harry, had stabbed the diary with a fang from the basilisk. No one else was around... Ginny Weasley was unconscious. There was no one who could be shaking him, talking to him.

"You've destroyed it, Harry. You can't stay here... it's wrong. But you will see. Find them, Harry. And don't come back yet, Harry. Not for a hundred years."

The voice withdrew. The shaking stopped, and whoever it was, was gone.

He knew what the images were, what they had been, and where. He felt suddenly ancient and cold.

Hundreds of miles away, an entirely different scene was occurring, though the events were related.

Petunia Dursley sat alone in her living room. She was alone because Dudley was still away st Smeltings, and because Vernon was attending an executive function at Grunnings. It was for high-level employees only, spouses not permitted, but it was not the sort of function Petunia would want to be at even if it were open. It was a Saturday at the end of May. Summer was almost here. Dudley would be returning home in two weeks, and her nephew in three.

Petunia's thoughts soured like nearly always when she thought of her nephew for any reason. She did not like thinking of him when he was around. Thinking of him when he was hundreds of miles away at _school_ was almost intolerable.

She had been enjoying herself reading a cheap magazine she bought every week all year, never missing an issue, not once in a dozen years or more. She would read it once, occasionally clipping out something or other, and throwing out the rest.

But thoughts of her nephew had been plaguing her all day, for no reason she could figure out. It had been a constant bother.

And then, she was seized. She felt overcome by heat... the air was surely baking... she began to sweat very badly, and her first thoughts were that she knew it would be necessary to bin this particular house-dress, and probably have the seat cover stripped and dry-cleaned.

Then those petty thoughts vanished from her mind. In her mind, the air was crackling and burning, aflame.

She felt pressure, and saw images, her memories, that she had not seen in a long time. There was a grip on her right shoulder, as if someone was standing behind her. But she knew no one else was home.

"Protect my son."

A voice. A familiar voice. _Lily's voice._

Lily was dead.

Lily was _dead_. She was not here. Petunia was alone, and nobody was speaking to her. There was no grip on her shoulder, the air was ordinary, she was sitting in her living room, reading a magazine, and she thought she might go to bed within the hour. Certainly before Vernon came home, as he was not likely to be home until well past midnight.

"_PROTECT MY SON."_

The voice was so much colder. It was angry and frightening. Lily had never sounded like this.

"You took him in, but you never loved him. Never wanted him. And you made that so abundantly clear. I suppose that means you never loved me either, or at least not after that summer. I can't believe you'd be capable of such blinding pettiness and unkindness... but you'll protect him now, won't you? _You made a promise._"

The voice was absolutely furious, but coldly, indomitably resolute.

Petunia shuddered, but meekly managed a bare nod. The pressure vanished at once.

The aura of Lily somehow then nodded in return. "We will have _words_ one day, Petunia. And you will _not_ find it to your liking." And then it was gone.

Petunia shook herself. She found herself in her living room, and found no evidence that anything at all had occurred, and she resolved herself to say absolutely nothing to Vernon.

Her attention returned to her magazine, and within an hour she didn't remember the event at all.

He awoke to the sensation of wetness. There were tears on his face... his own?... he didn't think so.

He felt warmth... Fawkes was crying over him again, and singing almost mournfully. It struck purely, and somehow filled him with courage.

And then he heard what sounded like sniffles, close by. He rose, and shook himself hard. He picked up his wand from the floor near the ruined book, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his robes. Fawkes was in the air, singing joyously... the phoenix then landed on his shoulder.

Harry saw that Ginny Weasley was awake. She had been the source of the sniffles then. She hadn't appeared to notice him yet. He walked over to the enormous corpse of the basilisk, and drew the sword from out the roof of its mouth.

It occurred to him that it might be important to take along the fang that had pierced his skin. He decided he wanted it for a memento. He shook himself again.

The Sorting Hat also needed retrieving. It was part of Hogwarts... it could not remain here, underground, forever, though this chamber too was part of Hogwarts. Salazar Slytherin himself had built it... and left behind the basilisk.

So much history, he thought. He did not know what else to think. He held onto the sword. That would need to be kept safe, though he hadn't a clue how it had got into the Sorting Hat.

The diary, he remembered. He needed to retrieve it. It was evidence of... something. Very complex and dangerous magic, certainly. Any artifact of Tom Riddle... Lord Voldemort... was something to be wary of.

He saw that he had pretty thoroughly ruined it. Certainly it was no good now as just a diary, not with a gaping hole through it. The thought flashed across his mind that whatever enchantments had been on it were probably broken.

He _knew_ that to be the case. He had been told. Somehow.

"Ginny", he said aloud. He turned back, and saw that she was looking around now. He saw her stare at the basilisk, and at the sword in his hand...

She started crying, and then began talking much too fast for him to understand fully. He caught something at the end about her parents. And the name "Riddle" peppered throughout.

"It's alright," Harry managed to say. "The basilisk is dead. Riddle's gone."

Fawkes trilled. Ginny continued crying softly.

Harry looked into the distance, towards the chamber's entrance. "Ron's waiting for us," he said. "We should go."

Ginny nodded, and followed as Harry walked. Fawkes flew off Harry's shoulder, and lit the way.

They reached the head of the chamber in moments, and the tunnel that had led to it. They made progress up the dark tunnel, Fawkes leading the way, and soon the sound of shifting rock reached Harry's ears.

"Ron!" Harry yelled, speeding up. "Ginny's okay! I've got her!"

He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned the next bend to see his eager face staring through the sizeable gap he had managed to make in the rock fall.

"_Ginny!" _Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the rock to pull her through first, then hugged her fiercely with what looked to Harry as all his worth. "I can't believe it! You're alive! How – what – where did that bird come from?" He gaped at Fawkes.

"He's Dumbledore's," said Harry shortly. "Let's get out of here; I'll explain as we go."

They made their way up the tunnel to the head, where Harry learned that Lockhart had lost all his memory as a result of the backfired spell. He thought this to be a dark, bitter humor, but did not say anything about it; it was just one more event to take in.

Harry did not say much about the diary or the sword, only saying that it would come out soon and he didn't want to explain it more than once. Fawkes lifted the whole group up the great pipe-shaft towards Myrtle's bathroom, where the resident ghost received a shock at their survival.

Fawkes led the way to Professor McGonagall's office, his red and golden plumage luminescent in the corridor.

The reunion exceeded his emotional expectations by miles. The explanation drained him almost completely, but still Harry remained in the office with Dumbledore after everyone else had left.

Harry knew that Dumbledore was watching him, but he was not sure himself how to put his feelings into words. They were jumbled up and contorted, uneven.

"Professor," he began, "I didn't mention this earlier, but... when I stabbed the diary, I felt so much pain that I thought my head cracked open. I think I lost consciousness, or even... I don't know. But I heard a voice I had never heard, and the voice told me I had destroyed _**it**_, and I don't know if it meant the diary or something else, but then..." he found he could not continue. The idea hurt too much.

He saw that Professor Dumbledore looked very grave, and looked suddenly even older than usual. "Harry, I must sadly say that I have no relevant knowledge of what you may have experienced. Most probably, no one alive has any idea. Perhaps there is one, but I think that not even Tom would be able to fully answer you, nor would he be willing. If you need some kind of answer from me, I suspect the important point is that you are here, now. Do you understand?"

Harry found that he did and did not. It was difficult.

They were soon interrupted by the arrival of Lucius Malfoy, and soon after that, Malfoy had left, and Dobby was free.

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, examining the sword Harry had pulled from the Sorting Hat. It was indeed the (thought lost) Sword of Gryffindor – or at least the most skillfully done fake he had ever come across. But he thought it was the genuine article; the metal was obviously goblin-work; the rubies in the hilt were in the right places from historical account; and so was the inscription of the famous name.

Fascinating, on the whole. He was tempted to ask the Sorting Hat _how_ it had given the sword to young Harry, but he knew he was not likely to receive more explanation than "I was once Gryffindor's, and so I alone may bestow Gryffindor's possessions at need."

More fascinating than the sword was the ruined diary Harry had brought back. Albus knew that Harry could not truly have known what the diary had once been.

A mere memory, starting to plot and act for itself, capable of possessing an actual living witch, even a partially-trained child?

Absurd. Granted, Harry only had two years of schooling himself...

But a mere memory would not have been able to commit these acts.

No, it had to have been something much darker, something he had suspected Tom had delved into, but Albus had never before been confronted with damning proof.

For a person to split their soul was an act of violation. Albus had believed for years that Tom had split his soul, but this was unquestionable proof.

The diary had been a Horcrux.

This proved, absolutely, that Tom had sunk into exceedingly dark magic. Not that there had been any real doubts.

But this was unusual, Albus thought. This diary had clearly not just been a safeguard, a way to prevent Tom's death.

It was clearly a weapon. _Had been_ a weapon.

Why would any wizard who had split his soul throw the very safeguard they had sought into someone's path where it could be destroyed, rendering them mortal and their efforts moot?

It was the height of foolishness. Albus believed Horcruxes to be ghastly magic, and that fear of death was idiocy, but Albus did not think Tom to be fool enough to deliberately toss away his sought-after immortality. Albus knew that Tom was _terrified_ of the prospect of dying.

Why else would Tom have named himself Lord _**Flight-from-death**__?_

But that was gone now. The Horcrux was thoroughly destroyed. Albus had to give young Harry credit; when he acted, he achieved. Albus could not sense _any_ magic about the book, and it had to have once been _heavily_ enchanted, even without the fragment of Tom's maimed soul.

Albus pondered a silver instrument he had kept for years. He probed it repeatedly, casting many spells upon it; very obscure spells tied to the device's purpose. The device was goblin-forged, but he'd done all the enchanting himself. To the goblins, it was a fine silver teapot.

And now it seemed to be exactly that. A fine silver teapot.

Albus began humming to himself.

"Harry, Harry, quite contrary. Tom, how low you lay."

Albus smiled. "Marvelous," he said, and then repeated himself. "Marvelous."

There was an aching sort of sensation that gripped him all over, and had for days, Harry thought. He did not know what it was. He only knew that at times his senses were oppressive: sight, hearing, smell, and touch. Only taste did not seem affected.

Those petrified by the basilisk had been woken up; except for Nearly Headless Nick, who was of course a ghost, and so not quite subject to the perils of the living – but he too had been restored.

Harry had not thought about any of them very much. He had gotten apologies from Ernie Macmillan and the other Hufflepuffs who had suspected him, and so his name was clear … though he would rather have not been suspected in the first place. Still … greater harm had not been done.

And now he was leaving the school, and what he considered his world. The year was over, and all the students were on the train now. He was not looking forward to another summer of boredom at Privet Drive … he hoped he would not be shut in the bedroom again. He felt somehow that he would not stand for that.

He thought about the Chamber, which he had left closed. He thought about the basilisk, which he had killed. He thought about the spectre of Tom Riddle that he had destroyed.

He thought a great deal about the completely unfamiliar voice he had heard, that had spoken to him and called him by name. And he remembered that Dumbledore had said that he was here, now, no matter what else.

He was sitting in a compartment with Ron, Hermione, and all four of Ron's siblings. He had noticed that all of the Weasley boys seemed reluctant to leave Ginny alone, and she was nearby as often as possible now. She never said anything to him, and she seemed quite ready to cling to any or all of her brothers at any moment. He suspected that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would likely not let her out of their sight much at all this summer.

He thought about Lucius Malfoy, who had engineered the terror to begin with. There were very dark feelings there, that Harry did not like to dwell on. The only pittance he had was that Draco Malfoy had spent what seemed the entire remainder of the year sulking.

He thought about the dull, almost suffocating _blandness_ he would be surrounded on all sides by and crushed in, for the next two months. He suppressed a shudder.

He hoped he could spend at least part of August at the Burrow. There he had felt welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

The Basilisk was very cranky after being awoken from sleep. The words it was hearing harkened back to some that were spoken to it ages past.

"_I am the heir of Salazar Slytherin. I command you to help me cleanse this school of the Mudbloods and filth threatening it from without."_

This is what the King of Serpents heard.

When it was born, its master and creator had told it all of how the school was at risk from "external threats" and that its purpose was to protect the school from said threats.

But over time, the serpent knew, it had been proven that there were no such threats as the master had believed.

Indeed, the serpent thought, what was now threatening the school's populace was … this boy declaring himself the master's heir.

There was only one acceptable course of action, the serpent knew. The master had been clear: threats were to be dealt with.

Quicker than it was possible to be believed, the serpent whipped its head around and snapped, piercing the dangerous boy nearly all the way through his torso with both major fangs, and injecting a full load of venom into him.

The venom would have caused a fatality even if the bite had not already inflicted a mortal wounding.

Fifteen year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle died in agony within thirty seconds.

Noting the corpse was of adequate size for consumption, the serpent swallowed it.

The fifth-year boy's absence was first noted by his head of house, Horace Slughorn, that evening as Tom had failed to report for the house prefect's meeting.

When the open portal in the girls' lavatory was alerted to the Headmaster and Deputy, an expedition was mounted. The opened Chamber of Secrets, heretofore a myth, was found in minutes. No remnant of Tom Marvolo Riddle ever was.

It was concluded by Headmaster Armando Dippet that the boy scarpered over pressure of his looming Ordinary Wizarding Levels.

Deputy Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had a different theory, but neglected to mention it.

Horace Slughorn lamented Tom's absence. No one else did.

Some decades later an exceptionally gifted and powerful student named Harry James Potter finished his N.E.W.T exams with record scores in Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense. It was also recorded that, due to Mr. Potter's fluency and frequency of pranks, that Gryffindor House finished dead last in the running for the House Cup every year he attended, never finishing with even a single point.

Potter married a Ravenclaw from the academic year following his, and never paid a thought even at the end of his long life to the fact that he had never once appeared in the newspapers, for any reason.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was ready. The dream from the summer had been continually on his mind since he'd had it; he was sure that it represented a warning. And the ending of the previous year had left him with the seeds of an idea in mind. He'd returned to Hogwarts with the goal of mastering one particular charm, which he had researched independently and practiced in secret. He believed he now knew that one piece of magic inside and out.

He now also was sure of what the dream had warned him of, and he was going to act. He was going to preempt and completely derail whatever goal Lord Voldemort had in mind for this Triwizard Tournament.

It was extremely fortunate for Harry that he knew the evil wizard's birth name, and that Hogwarts professors saved old papers at times. It so happened that Albus Dumbledore, had been the Transfiguration teacher when Lord Voldemort was at school, and Albus had kept a file with many of the dark wizard's old assignments. He had asked to see any papers that the dark wizard, then Tom Marvolo Riddle, had written in his first three years. Dumbledore had given him three, one for each of those years, and only asked that he return them whenever he was done with them.

That had been at the beginning of the year. It was now the very early hours of Halloween, and Harry was ready to act. If his plan succeeded, he would be able to return the essays in a few days. He slipped out of the Gryffindor dorms under his invisibility cloak, armed with his wand and the Marauder's Map, and made his way towards the entrance hall.

A little more than two hours later he was back in bed, his plan successfully set up and in place. He hoped.

That evening, Harry sat at the Gryffindor table with his friends, waiting to see if his plan had worked. The sight that morning of Fred and George Weasley with the long white beards they had been forcibly given by the Age Line had been hysterical. Harry had not tried to cross the line; he'd simply charmed the Goblet from afar and hovered the slip of paper into it.

He watched as Viktor Krum became the champion from Durmstrang. Somehow, he wasn't really surprised; he thought Krum was likely to be the most exciting possible contestant from that school and he was clearly the favorite of its headmaster, Igor Karkaroff. The whole hall clapped uproariously for Krum when his name was read out by Dumbledore.

He watched as someone named Fleur Delacour became the champion of Beauxbatons. It was the girl who seemed to be part Veela. The male applause in the hall was very loud; the female, not so much.

He was then a little surprised when Cedric Diggory, the Seeker for Hufflepuff, became the champion for Hogwarts. He clapped loudly for Cedric, and resisted the urge to cross his fingers or in any other way indicate that he was hoping for a fourth contestant.

It then happened. Dumbledore started to announce that the champions had been selected and that the tournament was on, when the Goblet's flames intensified and a fourth piece of paper was shot out. Harry held his breath; this was the moment of truth. Would it be the paper he had inserted, or the paper the presumed hidden agent of Voldemort may have done?

Dumbledore caught the fourth slip deftly, and seemed to be momentarily taken aback by the name on it. His eyes twinkled as he looked at it, seemingly in awe.

"Representing Crimson Shit-stain Institute … Tom Marvolo Riddle."

The silence that followed was deafening. Harry wondered who would break it.

He would not have guessed at Ginny Weasley. She all but slid from the bench in tears, laughing fit to burst. That seemed the cue for Fred and George to do the same thing; Ron and Hermione followed, and Harry did so in order to keep up appearances.

The whole hall was soon in a great clamor despite more than ninety-five percent of the people in the hall having no idea who the fourth person named was.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry awoke to find himself lying face-down, unmoving, in a thick mist. The floor thrummed with heat. He waited... listened... breathed... but he heard no sounds. No loud noises of machinery. No autos or lorries or motorbikes. No people. No dogs, no cats, no birds. No other animals. The wind was not blowing and rain was not falling. There was silence, and it encompassed all. All that there was and was not.

He could see only the mist, and the white floor beneath him. He rolled over, to better see the mist, and also the bright blue cloudless sky above. The sun was somewhere out of view. There was nothing else to see. Though he was not wearing glasses anymore, his vision was clear.

Lying on his back and looking up at the sky, he now saw that he was naked. Bothered, he wished to be clothed, and in that instant, as if by magic, he found himself wearing a white robe. It was soft and warm; the cloth felt simply wonderful. He had never worn anything so nice. His feet were clad in white slippers that were just as soft as the robe.

He wondered where he was, or if he was still asleep but dreaming. This place did not seem to be a place at all, just a vast expanse of emptiness. In that moment, without any sound at all, a figure appeared from the mist, standing before him.

The man, for it was a man, could have been anyone in any place. He looked remarkably ordinary. Middling height, on the slim side but not thin, brown hair and eyes, light skin, no distinguishing features in the face. The clothes he wore could have come off the racks and shelves of any clothier. He even had a plain gold band on one finger. Yet, in the midst of all these very typical features, still there was something that demanded attention. A presence of sorts which could not be ignored.

The man spoke in a soft voice, but Harry caught every word.

"**YOU HAVE MADE YOUR WAY TO THE PASSING REALM. HERE YOU DECIDE IF YOU GO ON, OR IF YOU STAY IN PLACE. TO STAY IN PLACE IS TO STAY FOREVER; TO GO ON IS TO LEAVE."**

Though the voice was soft, it filled Harry's ears and could not be ignored.

He thought about the words. It seemed there were few possibilities. "Am I dead? Or am I just dreaming?"

The figure smiled, and the smile seemed as non-descript and empty as the rest of him. **"YOUR LIFE IS AT ITS END. FEW WHO HAVE THE CHOICE CHOOSE TO STAY IN PLACE, BUT IT IS YOUR CHOICE."**

Dead it was, then. A part of Harry wondered how he had died. After thinking a little he found he was not sorry to have left his life behind. It had been almost naught but misery since he'd been a year old. He did not want to stay in place, and said so aloud.

The figure, who Harry now supposed was Death, nodded and continued to smile. **"THE CHOICE IS DECLINED. I NOW STATE A PROPOSAL. I ONCE GIFTED SOMETHING TO AN ANCESTOR OF YOURS. IT WOULD HAVE SHORTLY COME TO YOU, BUT IT NOW HAS NO RIGHTFUL OWNER IN THE LIVING WORLD. IF YOU LET ME TAKE IT BACK, I SHALL GIVE YOU SOMETHING IN TRADE."**

Harry didn't need long to think about this. He couldn't miss something he'd never had, something he didn't even know had existed and still didn't know what it was. And he said so.

Death's smiled seemed brighter and more full. **"THE DEAL IS ACCEPTED. FOR THE PRICE OF A CLOAK NEVER RECEIVED, A NEW WAY INTO LIFE IS GAINED."** Death waved his hand, and an image appeared before Harry.

It was a boy who seemed to be around eleven or twelve years old. He stood about ten centimeters taller than Harry did, and out-massed Harry by nearly two stone. His hair was a dark red and his eyes were hazel, but his face was the same as Harry's own. The hair fell straight and was not the ratty bird's nest Harry's hair sometimes resembled. He wore a gray buttoned shirt over a white undershirt, black trousers, and black shoes that looked new. The clothes were in good wear; none of them were grossly oversized, or ill-fitting in any way at all. He looked healthy. Harry felt more than a touch of envy.

Harry studied the image closely as Death spoke. **"THIS IMAGE REPRESENTS ONE WAY YOU MIGHT HAVE APPEARED. THERE ARE A LIMITLESS AMOUNT OF TURNS IN THIS LIFE AND OTHERS. YOUR NEW LIFE WOULD BE THAT BOY'S LIFE, IF YOU ACCEPT."**

Harry supposed this meant he truly would be leaving his life behind entirely, and would only be someone else. "Will I still be me, in any way?"

Death seemed to appreciate the question. **"IN THE BLOOD, NO, BECAUSE THAT CHILD IS NOT YOU. IN YOUR SPIRIT, PERHAPS. BUT DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU TRULY ARE? I DO NOT BELIEVE SO."**

Harry wanted to protest, but stopped short. Thinking hard, he had to concede the truth in that statement. He knew almost nothing about his past; the Dursleys had never told him anything of substance beyond things he was sure were lies. He knew his parents' names ("James Potter", "Lily") but nothing about them as human beings. People who had once lived, but died when he was barely a year old. He knew nothing of substance about them. He didn't know why the Dursleys hated them and hated him. There had been strange incidents they called "funny stuff", for which he had been punished, but never had there been explanations.

There were many uncomfortable blanks in Harry's idea of who he was. He couldn't say much for sure. The surest thing he could say was that he wanted to be nothing like the Dursleys.

For years he had wanted someone to appear and take him away; some lost family connection. Even a kindly stranger might have been enough, if anyone had offered. None had.

Yet, in some strange way it now seemed he was being given that chance.

There was only one answer. Harry nodded.

The smiled on Death's face grew very bright indeed. **"THEN LET THE BOND BE MADE!"**

There was a distant snapping sound, and something like a veil disappeared from Harry's senses. Harry wondered if it had always been there. He felt filled with heat, heat that only grew. He wondered if the heat would stop rising, then suddenly the world became black.

([])

He awoke again to find himself on a soft bed. The sheets and pillowcase had a creamy white color; the frame of the bed was brass and very simple; it looked old. The mattress was in good form, but the bed had clearly been in its place for years.

The room he was in was rather large, about eighteen square meters, and as it was nearly empty it seemed larger still. There was only the bed, a wardrobe, a small trunk, and a wall calendar. No tables or chairs. The overhead light had an attached fan which was revolving at probably its highest speed. It was soundless and generated a fair amount of air-flow, cooling the room. Not that the room needed cooling, although it was not hot either.

The far wall had a window, and he moved to see the view. It was not inspiring at all; simply a sandy clay courtyard. His memories now told him he was in an orphanage.

He opened the wardrobe to find clothes exactly like those he had seen in the image of the boy. Looking in the mirror, he saw that he _was_ that boy. He dressed quickly. There was no variety; all the clothes were the same. His memories told him all the orphaned boys wore these clothes; it was evidently a uniform. The girls wore dark blue dresses which were fitted for them individually but were otherwise also identical.

On the small rack inside the wardrobe's other door was a folder of papers. He quickly took the folder and opened it.

As he read the top page, memories washed over him.

"My name is Henry Northwood, and I'm eleven years old" the top paper began. "I live at Strangers House, a home for children." He found that he liked the name on the paper, and as he accepted it, he realized it was who he was.

The reading was melancholy. "I don't have any parents. I don't have any brothers or sisters. I don't have any other family. I've lived at Strangers House all the life I can remember. My birthday is Halloween, and I was brought here in the December after I turned two."

It continued on. "My parents were William Northwood and Elizabeth Briggs. I've been told they died in a motor accident. I hope they were good people. But there's nobody to tell me whether or not they were."

One paragraph had been thoroughly disapproved of. "If no one takes me in, I'll leave Strangers House when I'm eighteen. No one stays longer. The matron says the eighteen year-old boys mostly go into the army. The matron paddled my arse when I said that some of the girls become whores. The stupid woman doesn't want to hear it, even though it's true!" That paragraph had been crossed out in red and had very negative comments beside it.

The reading remained melancholy. "There are lots of other children at Strangers House. Some of them are older but most are younger. The older children will probably stay until they're eighteen. The little ones still may be adopted. I'm probably too old to be adopted."

"None of the children like me" began another paragraph. "They all think I'm strange. It's funny that we live in a place called Strangers House, and the other kids tell me I'm strange. I've gotten my own back by calling them stupid when they call me strange. I'd rather be strange than stupid."

Henry paused, and lost himself in thought. He remembered incidents: glass breaking, objects floating or moving without him moving them, the room heating up or cooling down when he willed it, people turning colors that were clearly unnatural (blues and greens dominated) when he was annoyed, animals doing what he told them to without taming them … there were many incidents.

As he thought about these incidents, he felt something stir within him. Heat rose in him: a hot, velvety syrupy and electric sort of heat. A wave of **power** crashed into his senses. He knew this was the source of the strangeness.

He knew that he had some control over that **power**, whatever it was. He could make glass break if he wanted it to. He could make objects come to him or move away from him, without touching them, if he wanted it to. When he wanted the room to be warmer it became warmer. When he wanted it to be cooler the temperature dropped.

Birds would sing when he told them to; wild birds that flew over to him just because he wanted them there.

If he commanded the other children to _go away_, they did, getting quickly out of his sight.

If this was **power**, then **power** he had.

He remembered sometimes being pushed around by the older children when he was younger; it had stopped when he was about six, because his **power** began to manifest and he began taking control of it. He remembered adults being short-tempered when he said something they didn't like, or anything at all for one particular caregiver who'd quickly gotten the sack.

He remembered being lonely in the school all the children of Strangers House attended, because stories of the funny incidents had preceded his arrival there, and the children whispered about him when they thought he wasn't listening. But he always heard.

He didn't like Strangers House. Strangers House didn't seem to like him either, and he wouldn't be sorry to leave.

In not quite a month he'd go off to secondary school. In less than seven years he'd leave this place forever. There was nothing to turn back for, and nothing to regret.

Just then he heard two sharp raps on the door.

([])

AUTHOR NOTES:

I'm thinking of making this an open challenge with the following strictures.

**Neville Longbottom is the Boy-Who-Lived, in name and in fact. Same procedure applied. Alice Longbottom (maiden name undecided)'s closest remaining blood relative was a first cousin: James Potter. James and Lily raised the Boy-Who-Lived, for sheer irony. The Potters are alive and healthy because Sirius Black was their Secret-Keeper and is loyal.**

**James and Lily did not have a child in July 1980, or the 1979-1980 period at all. They may have had children born in 1981 or later.**

**Severus Snape did not turn traitor, and is in Azkaban. Horace Slughorn remains at Hogwarts, teaching Potions and being Slytherin's head of house.**

**Henry Northwood is an extremely able wizard. His ability with a wand in hand is very reminiscent of Tom Riddle, or Albus Dumbledore. How he does in any other class is optional, but in the wand classes he is far and away the best in his year. Which is Neville's year, to be clear.**

Henry Northwood's personality in general: "direct to the point of rudeness" applies. Cold and at times sarcastic. He has no hero complex of any kind; that is baggage that was lost in transition. He believes that loyalty and fairness are good things, but has never experienced any loyalty and the "fairness" at the institution he grew up in was uniformity and conformity. I see him as a rather unlikable Hufflepuff. Cedric Diggory would probably try to mentor him and might even succeed.


End file.
